


Balancing the Ledgers

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Happy Ending, Hope, IOU, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Mentions of Death, Regret, TRF-inspired, TW for explosions, The warning of Major Character Death is obviously false, Tumblr Secret Santa 2018, as we all know how that happened, mentions of depression, possible TW for both, still the warning is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17156618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Imagine if, following Moriarty's trial, he hadn't come to see Sherlock that day....instead he bided his time and left his IOU in the place Sherlock least expected it. And just before Christmas, setting off an unstoppable chain of events that still result in John thinking he was dead.





	Balancing the Ledgers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lord-of-nerdy-art](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lord-of-nerdy-art).



> This is a gift for the talented, generous and kind @lord-of-nerdy-art for the Tumblr Secret Santa gift exchange, 2018. I hope this humble gift pleases my lordship. Please go follow @lord-of-nerdy-art on Tumblr and see the awesome artwork and inspiring craftiness.
> 
> Head-canon from @lord-of-nerdy-art: Moriarty announced his return by hiding a bauble with the letters IOU written on it in Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock found it on Christmas Day, along with news that a bomb had gone off in Piccadilly Circus.
> 
> I put a little hint towards Johnlock in here, but please read it as suits you best. Any deficiencies in the story are my own; the kind siriusblue (@redgreypurple) beta'd this for me and made some excellent suggestions.

          The bow scraped across the strings of the Strad, yielding an unpleasant, jarring screech instead of fluid notes to please the ear; Sherlock stopped in frustration, feeling the bitter rage twist inside of him. Damn Moriarty and his machinations! He was unable to think of little else besides the man and his ploys and plots.

          Playing the violin had been his one healthy recourse from his own thoughts for years, and now even that was denied him.

          The aborted trial had been in October, and here it was early December and not a word from or about the madman. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth. Sherlock had confidently expected him to arrive at Baker Street immediately after being released, only to be disappointed (and enraged) to be proven wrong.

          It was as if Moriarty no longer had any interest in Sherlock Holmes. Almost as if he’d dismissed him as being an unworthy opponent. Inconceivable, of course.

          “I’m back!” John announced unnecessarily, clomping into the sitting room, bringing the cold and the smell of curry with him. His tone was determinedly bright; he’d been trying for weeks to get Sherlock to cheer up, to come out of his funk and eat, sleep, “do something besides brood over that tricksy lunatic, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock!”

          Sherlock ignored him, although his stomach growled hungrily. He turned his back on John and plunged into Bartok’s Violin Concerto No. 2, fingers flying, eyes closing with the power of his emotions. He didn’t want to _eat_. He didn’t want to _sleep_. He wanted to “brood” until he made sense of why a man like Moriarty, obsessed as he had been, had suddenly vanished.

          And he wanted desperately to know what Moriarty would do next.

 

******

 

          “Time for the tree, I think,” John announced a few nights later. He’d come in from his shift at the clinic looking shattered, but after a lager, oven chips and a frozen pizza, followed by a shower (several degrees too hot, judging by his boiled lobster appearance), he seemed fine. Sherlock, four days into it without either a shower or anything consumed other than tea and toast, envied him his placid demeanour and simple mind.

          No, that was incorrect. John could indeed be placid, and at times maddeningly simple, but he was a complex and confusing man and Sherlock usually welcomed the distraction of John’s presence. Not now though. Not when he had _so much_ to think about!

          Refusing to help, Sherlock flounced onto the sofa and curled away from the room. His mind was as ordinary as Lestrade’s, nearly as stagnant as Anderson’s. He didn’t deserve the comfort of John’s good-natured preparation for Christmas.

          John hummed to himself as he tromped up and down the stairs to the attic, retrieving the rather dinky plastic tree he’d insisted on buying the year before, and the boxes of ornaments, fairy lights and bits of gaudy trash he persisted in garnishing the mantel with. “Be a nice night for a fire,” John stated with heavy meaning, “Too busy to start it _myself_.” Sherlock ignored him.

          “Wish I had someone to help,” John sighed a bit later, as obvious as a vaudevillian playing to the back row. “It’s always more fun doing it with someone else.”

          Sherlock sneered silently, and stuffed down an inconvenient memory of being lifted laughing to place the star on top of the Holmes family tree. He would have been five or six, as he’d discovered the fallacy of Father Christmas when he was seven, and refused to participate after that; and Mycroft wouldn’t have been strong enough nor tall enough to lift him; it must have been Father. He dismissed it; a childish pleasure for children.

          “Fa la la la la,” John sang softly, prying open another box and plunging into it with a triumphant, “Ah ha!”

          Or for childish people, apparently.

 

******

 

 

          Christmas Day dawned gray and dull, low-hanging clouds blending with a cold fog to render the landscape of the city muted. The radiators practically glowed with effort, and the fireplace in the sitting room was crackling as it consumed the almond firewood John had fed it before everything fell apart.

          The sitting room smelled pleasantly of almonds, and Sherlock almost wished he could shake off his sour mood long enough to thank John for recalling his idly spoken words. He’d mentioned once his fond memories of Christmases at his Mémé’s cottage, with the smell of mulled wine and burning almond wood scenting the air.

          John had remembered, and John had ordered almond firewood online. Sherlock had been on the verge of mentioning his appreciation to John, but instead had gotten into a rather blazing row over nothing with him instead. Now there existed a sour, sullen silence between them. Loathe to be the one to break it, Sherlock slouched in his chair, brooding on the leaping flames.

          From the kitchen came the sound of rattling dishes and slammed cabinets, punctuated by the odd grumble. With bad grace, John was preparing their noon-day meal. Mrs. Hudson had, after much fussing over leaving them alone, gone to visit her sister’s family. John had scoffed that he was capable of feeding them, and _no_ , he didn’t mean from Siam Palace or Taste of India, ta very much.

          Sherlock didn’t much care one way or another, but at least if John had ordered in he’d be forced to sit here with Sherlock and maybe they could talk and dispense with this uneasy silence. But then again, maybe not. John was perfectly capable of carrying his sulk upstairs and shutting Sherlock out.

          A muttered curse drifted in the room and Sherlock stood, deciding perhaps some classic Christmas music would soothe the savage beast. Nothing too dark, as John had made one or two tart remarks about certain violinists being pretentious, moody twats.

          Turning from retrieving his violin from its case, Sherlock was struck by something he hadn’t noticed before on their tree. The light from the lamp in the corner, which was not normally lit, but which today was blazing in an attempt to combat the darkness, shone ruddily on a new ornament.

          The hand holding the Strad fell slowly to his side, and as if moving underwater, Sherlock crossed slowly over to the tree. His eyes were fixed on a mirrored red glass ball suspended on the side of the tree facing his desk. It hung approximately at eye level if he were sitting in his chair.

          Reaching out, Sherlock touched his fingertips to the ornament, pulse rising in excitement. **IOU** had been etched in acetone on the painted surface, and the silver under-layer shone through.

          _Moriarty!_ It must be! Sherlock prepared to snatch the ball from the branch when a sudden urgent change to the nature of the radio station which had been playing soft renditions of carols caught his attention. Excitement rising, Sherlock stood rigid as the announcer, voice vibrating with suppressed emotion, informed listeners that a bomb had just exploded in Piccadilly Circus.

          “…residents are cautioned to avoid the area entirely, as response teams flood the surrounding streets in an effort at containment. No mention has been made at this time of any threats, and authorities have urged anyone with information to call the following hotline…”

          The words faded out as Sherlock dropped his violin carelessly onto the seat of his chair and dashed toward the door, seeking his Belstaff and scarf. “John!” He shouted, “Come—there’s no time to waste!”

          There was an indignant bellow behind him but Sherlock was already dashing down the stairs, mind racing. The game was on!

 

******

 

_Year One_

_London_

          John didn’t get out of bed all day.

          It was Christmas, but really, it was just another day. The only thing memorable about it was the fact that it was a sort of anniversary. Christmas Day of the last year had been the beginning of the end.

          The end of a brilliant man, a brilliant career. The end of John’s happiness and the greatest, most maddening, most fulfilling friendship he’d ever experienced.

          Christmas was just a reminder of all he had lost and he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, to eat, to give a damn about anything other than misery and memories.

          In less than two weeks the previous winter, he had gone from angry at Sherlock (and being angry at Sherlock that he had made him angry at him on Christmas Day) to being swept up breathlessly into yet another improbable adventure. He’d been subjected to watching helplessly as forces beyond his control converged on Sherlock.

          Moriarty, with his usual insidious evil, had managed to place blame for the series of Christmas bombings (the Twelve Days of Christmas Massacre, the papers had called it) squarely on Sherlock. Every person Sherlock had ever pissed off seemed to emerge eagerly from the woodwork, ready to vilify him. When Lestrade, wearing reluctance as clearly as a mask, had come to arrest Sherlock, John had managed to get himself arrested as well, by nutting the arse-wipe Commissioner who’d spread derision around the flat like butter on toast. Sherlock, the brilliant idiot, had actually snatched John’s Browning from where it was concealed in his waistband and taken him “hostage.”

          The running hadn’t lasted long, and in typical Sherlock fashion he had ditched John, disappeared, and then reappeared shortly thereafter, on the roof of St. Bart’s. With sickening predestination, John, who had gone in search of him to keep his arse out of further trouble, had arrived in the ambulance court just in time to receive a chilling final call.

          None of his begging or pleading, nor his furious, desperate denials, had softened Sherlock’s resolve. Claiming one final time that it had all been lies, he had stepped off the roof as if boarding an elevator. Only instead of arriving smoothly at his destination, he had plummeted brutally to the pavement.

          John still heard the crunching thump in his nightmares.

          Nothing had been—or would be—capable of making him believe Sherlock to be anything less than what he had proved himself to be—John’s saviour and best friend. In this he seemed to be alone, however, and so he had boxed his emotions away, gathered his few possessions and left Baker Street. He couldn’t bear to be reminded daily of all he had lost. Unfortunately Christmas and all its trappings was a daily reminder of the previous year’s heartache. His bed-sit was a quiet haven from fresh pain, being completely void of any hint of the holidays.

          The tree (and all its accompanying ornaments) had been boxed up the year prior by Mrs. Hudson, as he and Sherlock had no time in the wake of Moriarty’s opening gambit with the Christmas Day bombing which had been the first in a series of deadly moves that kept them on the run until Sherlock’s violent end.

          John supposed the tree and the boxes were still in the attic at 221 B. He supposed that technically they belonged to them. He supposed that he owed Mrs. Hudson a visit. Actually he _knew_ that he owed Mrs. Hudson a visit.

          John didn’t get out of bed all day.

 

_Budapest, Hungary_

          Staring out the tiny, ice-fogged window of his attic hideout, Sherlock tried to ignore the cold, and his hunger. Instead he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the wall. Thoughts of London, of Baker Street, of John, swirled in his head, and he fought down the desire to stand up, walk down the stairs, out of the building and out into the square.

          Let them come for him, let the game be over. He didn’t care.

          No. That wasn’t true. He wanted it to end, but at the end of the day Sherlock still wanted to be able to go home to John. All he wanted was to take John to bed and remain there all day. And if John still had no interest in a sexual relationship, if he still insisted he wasn’t gay, then he would play for him, or go to the London Zoo, or find a series of cases to dazzle him and fill both of their lives with excitement and adventure. Just John, really. That was what he wanted, however he could have him.

 

******

 

_Year Two_

_London_

 

          Mary was a force of nature (like someone else he had once known) and there was no time to be sad or angry around her. Within three months of meeting one another, he had moved from his depressing bed-sit into her flat. It was an adjustment, living with someone else. Well, a different someone else.

          Christmas had been…hard, last year. But this year it was easier. Mary organized the decorating, and the live tree, and planned the meal and invited friends for a celebration for those of them without families to go home to. John was relieved to stop thinking and let someone else make the decisions.

 

 

_Somewhere in Montenegro_

          It wasn’t supposed to be _two years._

 

******

 

_Year Three_

_London_

          No Sherlock, no Mary. John felt like life had reverted back several years, to when his life was empty and hopeless. The loss of Mary—rather, the end of their relationship—was painful and left him feeling lonely. But not broken. Not empty and hopeless the way losing Sherlock had.

          Losing Sherlock had been devastating, and John is glad time has given him a chance to heal a little. This year, being alone at Christmas won’t leave him feeling hollow and used. He’s gained enough perspective to be grateful for the year he knew Sherlock, for how the other man had brought him back to life, given him adventure and excitement and a reason for getting out of bed. He’d abandoned that new lease on life when Sherlock jumped, and looking back he was ashamed of himself for how far he’d fallen in response.

          Even though he was alone again, John felt a quiet hope that maybe things would be alright. He’d made it this far and it looked like he had a lot of life left to him; might as well try to enjoy it. Deciding he needed to make an effort, he trekked out to the shops and bought a small tree, two strands of fairy lights, and a few boxes of ornaments. It wasn’t anything elaborate, and it was honestly pretty sad compared to what might have been, but John was pleased when he was done.

          He raised a tot of whisky in Sherlock’s memory, “To the best and wisest man I ever knew.” Swallowing the burn of whisky and tears, he managed a smile, “I miss you, Sherlock.”

 

******

 

          John had a morning shift the next day, and ended up staying late to cover for a sick co-worker; honestly there wasn’t much to call him home, and it was better when he didn’t have time to sit and think about what he had lost.

          He was working joylessly, but dutifully, at the clinic Stamford had kindly lined up for him. One night John had rather drunkenly confessed that he was jobless again after leaving the clinic where he’d met Mary. A small part of him was embarrassed at how frequently Mike Stamford seemed to have to save his arse, but he was grateful all the same.

           The clinic was a bit too far from his bed-sit, and the work was dull and routine, but it paid the bills. It allowed him to remain in London. Somehow London felt like his last link to Sherlock, and the maddest, most wonderful year of his life.

          That night he came home on the Tube, footsore and tired. Following a quick, slightly too-hot shower in the shared bathroom, John poured himself a glass of whisky—but only half a glass, his family history of alcoholism being what it was—and sat in the small club chair that had come with his room. The radiator was humming; the one window frosted over with condensation, and the small room was lit only by the glow of fairy lights on the tree.

          “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he said, as he did every year, raising his glass in salute to his fallen friend. He cleared his throat, determined not to grow maudlin again, as he had the night before.

          Gazing at the red satin balls and white snowflakes on the tree, John at first didn’t notice the anomaly. After a time of sitting wordlessly, whisky warm on his tongue, John thought he noticed something silvery glinting in the depths of the tree. Frowning, he set his glass on the floor and rose, walking to the corner where he’d placed his tree and crouching to peer closer.

          Placed farther back than the other ornaments was a silvery glass ball with something written on it…reaching in, John ignored the prick of plastic branches and unhooked the ornament. Bringing it close, his pulse began to pick up. **IOU** …wild emotions thrumming in his chest, John turned the ornament… **an apology. SH**

          Clutching fiercely at the ornament, John shot to his feet, legs steady, heart racing double time. Light-headed with hope and fierce joy, he turned and reached the door in two strides. He knew, he knew, he _knew_ that it hadn’t all been a lie! Jerking open the door, only as it cleared the jamb did John’s cooler reason wonder if this wasn’t all some elaborate ploy by a lingering minion of Moriarty’s to lure him to danger.

          _Sod it_ , he thought fiercely. Anything was better than existing in limbo.

          No danger, except one he welcomed gladly, joyfully, with a smidgen of rage but more relief than anything else.

          Standing at his door, instantly recognizable in his Belstaff, despite his gaunt pallor, Sherlock raised his head, eyes fever bright under his shorn curls, “Hello, John.”

          “You madman,” John breathed, reaching out and dragging an unresisting Sherlock through the door and into his arms, “I ought to kill you.”

          “Oh John,” Sherlock drawled, sounding damply amused. “How unoriginal of you.” He kept his face buried in the collar of John’s jumper, and John felt a wave of tenderness at the motion his friend was obviously hiding.

          “Shut it, you,” John growled, hugging him harder. Time enough for questions and messy emotions later. For now he just wanted to revel in the return of his best friend.

          And amazingly, Sherlock complied, and simply hugged him back.

         


End file.
